


A Full and Frank Account

by Mystrade_Dispatch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, M/M, tumblr inspired
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-23
Updated: 2014-05-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 06:11:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1677680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mystrade_Dispatch/pseuds/Mystrade_Dispatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There’s just nobody like you. In a lot of ways. Want me to list them all? Isn’t that how you government types do everything in life? By official memo?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Full and Frank Account

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this text post on Tumblr: "i dont trust people who are attracted to me…like why? write me a 10 page paper with a legitimate thesis and valid points backing up your claim or you fake." - lamegrownup
> 
> Song at the end is what I was listening to, and additionally inspired by, while writing this. XD

Mycroft Holmes reflected that it was almost never a good sign when Greg Lestrade entered his office grinning, which was a shame given how the man’s smile was, well, charming.

In fact, the only time Mycroft could remember that a smiling DI had not presaged utter disaster was the day Lestrade had rushed over with the “breaking news” of the discovery of irrefutable proof indicating James Moriarty had indeed existed and Sherlock had been right all along. Mycroft had been a bit too weary at the time to feign much surprise, but Lestrade in his exuberance hadn’t seemed cognizant of his lackluster show of “astonishment” and “relief.”

Mycroft hoped he wouldn’t be called to put on another show this time for the Detective Inspector, because he was hardly in the mood. The situation in Venezuela was threatening to spin out of control, and he was knee-deep in communiqués and reports, which would all be for naught if he had to actually go to Caracas to straighten things out himself.

Now he was on the phone, the silent listener in a teleconference being conducted in rapid Spanish, as Lestrade stood at the doorway waiting, a sheaf of papers in his hand, looking like a Lewis Carroll character. Mycroft held up a hand and shrugged almost apologetically. Greg nodded in response and began leafing through the papers he held, his brow creased in silent concentration.

Mycroft watched him for a moment, still somewhat nonplussed at the man’s arrival. He’d almost expected the DI to text him some excuse for not coming round after all. If he’d done so, it would have come as something of a relief to Mycroft. He was extremely busy that day and probably should have ignored Lestrade’s attempts at communication or at least responded after he’d gotten a handle on the Venezuela mess. 

However, he had been intrigued by Lestrade’s early-morning text proclaiming that he’d “finished his assignment” and wished to turn it in at Mycroft’s earliest convenience.  In the shower, in the car, in the breakfast meeting, and beyond, Mycroft had wracked his brain, trying to dredge up any memory of what Lestrade could be going on about. Generally Lestrade’s  “assignments” outside the jurisdiction of the Metropolitan Police Service consisted of keeping Sherlock out of a jail cell, a coffin – or, as could have been the case in Dartmoor some years before, both.

But Sherlock had been noticeably subdued since the nuptials of Dr. John Watson and the former Ms. Mary Morstan, and, as such, was not haunting the halls of NSY as frequently as before. It was a turn of events that Mycroft had discussed with Lestrade a few days earlier during an impromptu pub visit. The gin had been a touch more potent than Mycroft had anticipated – or at least that is what he’d told himself as he and Lestrade had talked and lingered over drinks for a great deal longer than Mycroft had initially intended. Not that it had been a hardship – Greg Lestrade was diverting, stimulating and very attractive company, and talking with him had been … nice. Very nice.

Though there had been that _one_ slight hiccup.

Mycroft roused himself from his musings and looked Lestrade full in the teeth. He had a disarming smile; it put a person at ease at the same time putting him on edge … or, Mycroft thought idly, that might have just been its effect on _him_ at that moment.

After a harried voice droned on about a “rebel” faction that might be willing to make a deal with government negotiators if the price was right, the phone call thankfully drew to a close. With a soft sigh, Mycroft softly placed the receiver in its cradle and looked up.

“Detective Inspector, my apologies for the wait. The Interior Minister was being somewhat long-winded.”

“Sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt.” Greg’s smile had lost some of its wattage. “You said that this would be a good time to come round –”

“—No, no, it’s fine, really.” He waved him toward a seat opposite the desk, frowning slightly when Lestrade remained standing. Mycroft’s eyes flicked up and down. Greg was tense now. On edge. Nervous, even. Whereas he’d strode into the office like the cat who’d gotten the cream, now his posture was tentative and reticent.

_Ah. He really thinks he’s disturbed something important, and yet he opted to stay and wait rather than leave and try again later..._

Mycroft found himself more intrigued than ever about this “assignment” that had prompted the DI to enter in such high spirits and see his mission through to the very end.

“Need a paracetamol? I carry them on me now,” said Lestrade, glancing at the chair but making no move to sit down. He grinned at Mycroft’s puzzled expression. “It’s just that you have that same look on your face as when I think I can skive off a bit early after a hard day and then get buried under a few tons of extra paperwork.”

“My office is being asked to look into the unpleasantness going on in Venezuela. It could have been contained easily if they’d come to us weeks ago, but …” Mycroft spread his hands in a gesture of exasperation. “Thank you for your offer, nevertheless. I would have taken you up on it had I still been required to participate in a Skype session with some of the members of the National Assembly, but your visit saves me from all of that.”

Greg’s smile widened slightly. “It’s always all go for you here, yeah?”

“Some days more than others. Please, Detective Inspector, do have a seat.” Mycroft indicated the chair again. This time, Lestrade sat down, resting the bundle of papers in his lap. 

“Can I get you a coffee?” 

“No thanks – I can’t stay long; I’m headed to The Old Bailey for a deposition.” Flashing another grin, Lestrade plopped the papers he’d been resting in his lap onto Mycroft’s desk with a flourish. “I just wanted to pop in and drop _this_ off.”

Frowning, Mycroft gave the pages a quick once-over. Beyond knowing that whatever was on the sheaf was Lestrade’s handiwork, all he could tell was that the pile contained fewer than 15 pages, had been typed and printed on the laptop Lestrade had kept at home and printed on the printer therein rather than that at the Yard. It had been read and amended several times before Lestrade had arrived at the finished product.

Mycroft blinked. “I don’t understand.”

“Come on, don’t tell me you forgot already. It was just two days ago!”

“ _What_ was two days ago?”

 Lestrade was smirking now. “Give the title a glance. I’m sure it’ll come back to you.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed as he gave the pages a slightly less cursory look. It wasn’t police business. It wasn’t government business. It wasn’t, he was sure, about Sherlock – anything in print about his brother these days came from John Watson’s keyboard or that of the tabloids. Nothing in that set of papers should in any way concern or intrigue him, and yet Lestrade was certain that it did and _would_.

_Interesting …_

Lestrade had spent time on it and had deviated from a very tight schedule in order to deliver it. Moreover, it appeared time sensitive, since he didn’t send it by post, and also sensitive in other ways, as he didn’t trust it to e-mail.

 ** _Very_ ** _interesting …_

“Hm. Well, I have to admit, Detective Inspector, you have me at something of a loss.” Mycroft’s shoulders rose minutely as he reached out and pulled the stack of papers onto his blotter. “I can’t even imagine what –”

His mouth closed with an almost audible snap as his glance fell on the pages beneath his palm. Mycrorft’s eyes rounded in shock and for a moment, he couldn’t get his breath, sure that he was misreading, misunderstanding, miscomprehending –

“Didn’t think I’d do it, eh?” Lestrade sounded inordinately pleased with himself, either unaware or ignoring Mycroft’s valiant attempt to get air into his lungs. “But there it is – typed up, single-spaced, even made sure to run it through the spellchecker.”

Mycroft closed his eyes during a silent count to four. Opening them only to be confronted by the same bold black letters, Mycroft looked across his desk at his visitor, his brows high.

“ _Why I fancy Mycroft Holmes: A Full Report, by Greg Lestrade._ ”

Mycroft was proud at how his voice trembled only on the penultimate syllable. He was sure Greg hadn’t even noticed.

“I … can tell by your demeanor that this isn’t a joke –”

Some of the levity drained from Lestrade’s expression. “A _joke_? Are you bleeding serious? I –”

“— But I’m not entirely sure _what_ this is.” Mycroft glanced at the pages and then quickly looked away. “Or your purpose in writing it –”

“Because you _asked_ me to!” Greg’s face was red. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember, it was just two bloody days ago!”

“I –” Mycroft frowned heavily. He couldn’t recall anything that could have transpired two days ago that would have resulted in …

A sudden memory flashed into Mycroft’s brain and he had to consciously force his jaw to stay where it was.

“Oh, dear god! _That_? Detective Inspector, not to put too fine a point on it, but … you were drunk.”

“Oi!” Lestrade’s brow darkened. “The day three watered-down beers gets me bladdered is the day I’ll turn in my warrant card and go … go juggle knives in some circus somewhere.”

Mycroft considered that, mildly surprised that he wasn’t having as hard a time picturing that … slightly phallic scenario as he might have imagined.

“Fine, then _I_ was drunk.”

“Normally I’d say anything that costs 15 quid a pull _better_ get you pissed,” said Lestrade with a small smile, “but you didn’t seem like you’d had anything stronger than water.”

Mycroft shook his head slowly. He wondered if this was why he’d had a hard time working out what Lestrade had been up to. This was just … surreal. 

At the pub, after their conversation on Sherlock had waned, talk turned to other things. Perhaps the beer had been watered down, but Mycroft could only put Lestrade’s foray into flirtatious banter down to alcohol, though Mycroft could admit to himself that it wasn’t exactly a hardship to have a gorgeous man making eyes at him. Things hit a ludicrous note when Lestrade had stumbled over what appeared to be an invitation to dinner, and Mycroft, somewhat uncomfortable had tried to bring things back on an even keel by suggesting that there were plenty of men and women in that very pub who would likely be better company.

 _But I fancy_ you _… if you don’t fancy me, just say so, but I’m being serious here._

Mycroft could still hear the half-hurt, half-determined timbre as if he were there again, on that stool, looking into the dark, shining eyes.

Mycroft had meant it to be lighthearted when he’d asked what he had that all those in Lestrade’s sphere who would happily take him up on his offer lacked. Why him? Surely it couldn’t be physical attraction, and he was around clever people all the time – his brother for one. He still remembered Greg’s pout and his clear-eyed declaration that followed that statement.

 _You’re different. There’s …. There’s just nobody like you. In a lot of ways. Want me to list them all? Isn’t that how you government types do_ everything _in life? By official memo?_

Mycroft drew a breath, seeing in his mind’s eye the image of his two-days-younger-self regarding Lestrade lazily, his voice as dry as the gin in his glass as he suggested that something in writing might be nice.

_But not a memo, Mr. Lestrade – those are for Under-Secretaries and clueless heads of corporations. A report.  A proper one, with a thesis and supporting statements. Citations. Footnotes. An index, if you’re so inclined._

He slowly raised his eyes to look at Greg Lestrade.

“Detective Inspector … I was …”

Mycroft paused, the tips of his fingers skimming the papers’ surface.

“We were having a collegial night out. There was alcohol involved. You caught me somewhat off-guard. My response was not intended to be taken seriously.”

“That’s all bollocks.” Greg’s expression softened. “Wait, no … I take that back. The first parts are true. We were having a blokes’ night and there was a bit of drinking being done, true. And I believe you when you say you weren’t expecting me to try to chat you up. I think that’s what made you frame the whole thing as a joke. I think, deep down, you _were_ being serious, but you really didn’t think I’d do it.”

“And was that your motivation?” Mycroft kept his voice light. “You performed this … task because you knew I didn’t expect it of you?”

“Nope.” Lestrade shook his head. “I did it because you didn’t think I _could_ do it.”

Mycroft rubbed the bridge of his nose, beginning to wish he’d not been so hasty in refusing Lestrade’s offer of painkillers.

“I’m not sure I follow.”

“I reckoned you didn’t think I _could_ write a whole report about why I fancy you,” said Lestrade. “Put it another way: I don’t think _you_ thought I could come up with _any_ reasons why I fancy you. And that’s _one_ reason why I did it. To show you I could write a whole report about it … and that it was easy.”

Mycroft felt a vein in his forehead throbbing. “There is another reason?”

Greg nodded. “The other reason is … well, I don’t think you ever thought someone _would_ want to take the time to spell out their feelings like this. I did it because it _was_ worth the time – to me. _You’re_ worth it.”

Mycroft stared into the other man’s eyes, looking for signs of dissimulation or mendaciousness. Finding none, Mycroft allowed himself to do what he’d avoided doing ever since Lestrade had appeared in his doorway: he loosened his tie. Just a tick – he was aware that he was still in a Whitehall office, not a concert in Finsbury Park.

“I see.” Mycroft lightly riffled the pages with the edge of his thumb. “And how long did it take you to compose this?”

“Fifteen minutes.”

Mycroft cocked a brow, lifted the papers to eye level, scrutinized them for a moment from that vantage point, and then looked at Lestrade again, his other brow climbing.

Greg coloured, but he didn’t look away.

“Well, if you mean _compose_ as in actually typing it out, that was more like … err … a couple of hours.” Lestrade coughed. “I meant it took about 15 minutes to actually organize things in my head so that it could make sense on paper. Might’ve done better if you’d asked me to give an … oral report, instead.”

A flush crawled up Mycroft’s neck and spread outward, making his face tingle from jawbone to browbone. Judging by Lestrade’s cheeky leer, he hadn’t been imagining a double meaning there.

“Yes, well …  let’s not get _too_ ahead of ourselves, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft flipped the page and was met with a dense paragraph of text headed by the words: **Introduction and Thesis**.

“May I?” he gestured to the page.

“S’what it’s there for. To be read.” Lestrade glanced at his watch. “I’ve got a bit of time, if you have questions …”

“Hm …” Mycroft scanned the page, mildly disconcerted that the blush wasn’t abating as rapidly as he would have thought.

Clearing his throat, he read aloud: “ _Mycroft Holmes is a government official in service to the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland. He has a powerful position even though it’s unclear just what he does. He must do a good job at it because he gets nicer and nicer cars to whisk people away in every year.”_

He had to grin as he glanced at Lestrade. “Perk of the position.”

“Huh.” Greg smiled back. “I’ll bet.”

Returning to the page, Mycroft continued: “ _Mycroft Holmes is in his mid-40s, well-educated and probably the cleverest man in Britain. He’s also a good bit of a dish and I, Greg Lestrade, Detective Inspector, Homicide and Serious Crimes Division, New Scotland Yard, Victoria, have fancied the hell out of him for years. In this report I will detail everything that makes Mycroft Holmes attractive to me both from a physical standpoint as well as intellectually and in other ways that don’t quite fit either categrory. I will also list all the reasons why I think Mycroft Holmes should let me, Greg Lestrade, take him out for a night of cinema, a meal and a walk outside (weather permitting) without the subject of his brother, small arms, body parts, drugs, national security, Man U, or harpoons coming into the conversation, and seeing where things might go from there.”_

Mycroft’s voice trailed off and he looked again at his visitor. “Very interesting thesis statement. It does somewhat read a bit differently than I expected … it seems to preface a report that I’d assume to be part Downing Street Memo and part Last Will and Testament.”

Greg leaned close and tapped his finger on the page. “No national security talk.”

“Apologies … but wouldn’t that apply only if we were on said date?” Mycroft asked, flipping to the next page, which to his mild surprise contained a table of contents.

“You organized this into _chapters_?”

“Sure.” Greg shrugged. “They aren’t _long_ chapters, mind, but I wanted to make sure I covered everything.”

“Ah.” Mycroft’s eyes traveled down the page. “My legs have their own chapter?”

“Well, I suppose I could’ve summed it up with ‘And he’s got legs that go up to his eyeteeth,’ but I wanted to give a little more context.”

“So I see.” Mycroft brow wrinkled. “One of the chapters is titled ‘Sherlock.’ In your opening statement, Sherlock was one of the prohibited topics.”

“Right, but that chapter isn’t really about _Sherlock_ ,” said Greg. “It’s more … well, it would take me longer to explain than it would if you just read it yourself.”

Mycroft considered for a moment, then flipped to the ‘Sherlock’ chapter, which began on page 7.

“ _There’s a lot you can say about Sherlock Holmes. There’s even a lot of_ good _things you can say about Sherlock Holmes. But the best thing you can say about him is that he’s got a man like Mycroft Holmes in his life._ ”

Mycroft chuckled beneath his breath. “I’m sure this is but one statement in this report with which my brother would _vehemently_ disagree.”

“Well good job this isn’t _for_ him and I don’t give a toss what he’d think anyway.” Greg shrugged. “Go on.”

“ _I say this because there are very few people like Mycroft Holmes who care so much for a person who kicks him in the teeth again and again.”_

Mycroft paused, rubbing the stretch of skin below his Adam’s apple. “Detective Inspector, this is …”

“Look, it’s okay.” Greg’s voice was soft. “You don’t have to read out loud if you don’t want to. Just so long’s you _do_ read it.”

Mycroft went quiet, studying the earnest expression that had softened the worry lines around Lestrade’s eyes and mouth, making him look almost a decade younger. It had been nearly that amount of time since he’d first made the acquaintance of Greg Lestrade, a man who’d been a sergeant five years too long by that time, who was already beginning to have a vague notion that his marriage was on shaky ground and that he would never rise quite as high in his career as he might have hoped, and who still had managed to calm Mycroft at what had then been the greatest crisis of his life … Sherlock overdosing and at the point of death.

_Doctor’s in with him now. ... Said it was close, but he’ll pull through. They got to him just in time. You’re his … what? Brother? Right. … Not to sound like a tit, but you need to look into getting him some help. The PC who brought him in says he’s a regular at that smack house and he may not be so lucky next time. … No, I’m not on the Drugs Squad but I can get you some information when we get back to the Yard. … Me? Oh, right, sorry. It’s Lestrade. Greg Lestrade. What’d you say your name was again?_

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft blinked, surfacing from the memory to see Greg peering at him in mild alarm.

“I … yes?” He rolled his shoulders back, uncomfortable with how disoriented he was. “You seem concerned, Detective Inspector.”

“Well, I am. You were just sort of … staring off into space.” Greg’s posture was stiff and he was leaning forward as if ready to spring into action. “Everything okay?”

“I apologize.” Mycroft straightened in his seat, bending his face over the typed pages until he was more certain his expression was what it needed it to be at that moment. “I was reminded of something … I wasn’t trying to be rude deliberately. Shall we continue?”

Lestrade looked astonished, but he nodded jerkily after awhile. “Whatever you want.”

Mycroft cleared his throat again, and picked up the thread: “… _again and again. Mycroft bears the brunt of Sherlock’s bad temper. It’s been that way pretty much since I got to know either of them. Sometimes I could chin Sherlock for being such an arse, and there have been times that I wouldn’t have blamed Mycroft if he’d left Sherlock to stew in his own juices and unmake his own messes. But he never did. Sherlock was always able to read him off because Mycroft never deserted him and I guess Sherlock knew he wouldn’t. Even the worst things Sherlock has ever said, things one brother should never say to another, hasn’t kept Mycroft from giving Sherlock help whenever he needed it and being there whenever he needed it and even when he didn’t know he needed it. Or if he couldn’t be there, from sending somebody to do the job for him. …”_

Mycroft’s mouth quirked into a grin. “Now, Detective Inspector, you can’t tell me that you didn’t derive _some_ enjoyment from your Dartmoor adventure.”

“Oh, right.” Greg rolled his eyes. “Between skulking about on the moors at night, shooting at who knows what, watching a bloke blow himself into a million pieces and consoling _another_ bloke who’d been living in terror most of his life, somehow I didn’t find much to put on a postcard. Though … I do admit the ale at the bed and breakfast was pretty ace.”

“Well. So long as there was _one_ thing.”

Mycroft’s smile softened at the edges as he continued to read aloud: “ _Some people might not put up with it, relative or no. In my line of work, I’ve seen families that you’d think would want to band together after the tragedy of losing a loved one before their time cut each other off because of some past history or something said they felt was unforgivable. Some people might even think it a bit mad to continue to associate with someone who screams abuse or makes jokes at your expense or tries to remind you every moment that your company isn’t wanted. Maybe once upon a time, I thought that myself. But I would have been wrong. It’s not a sign of weakness, it’s one of strength. It takes a strong person to absorb that sort of abuse and realize that no matter what’s being said, that person does need you and love you. It takes a strong person to know that no matter what, that person will never ever let you know that. It takes a strong person to keep their heart open despite all of that. Sherlock Holmes once told me that the post his brother holds only has one requirement: that you be the most heartless bastard in all of Britain. So he’d have people believe his brother is heartless, but Sherlock himself is proof of that lie. In fact, his very life and his current circumstances are proof of that lie. Mycroft Holmes has a heart, a big one. Watching him around his brother made me realize that from the first. And it’s my hope that maybe there’s room in there for someone else. (Me.)”_

Mycroft burst into laughter. “Was the parenthetical aside _truly_ necessary? As the subject of the report _is_ , after all, partially the many reasons you and I should keep more than casual company.”

“Hell yes.” Greg’s eyes glowed. “I didn’t want to leave anything open for interpretation, you know. That’s not how to do a report.”

His residual chuckles faded, and Mycroft ran his eye over what he’d just read, not sure what exactly to say. For this to have been in the forefront of Greg Lestrade’s mind, despite his close friendship with Sherlock was … extraordinary, to say the least.

“Thank you. For this. For all of this,” Mycroft said softly, leafing through the rest. “I am … well …”

“Appalled? Flattered? Wondering if I knew before I wrote this that the writing program has a thesaurus built in? I did, you know, on that last thing, but I'd never actually used it before.”

Mycroft started to speak, but something caught his eye and he found himself blinking in shock.

“I am … naked.” He blinked again, noting that he'd turned to a page that had a male figure, depicted in the nude. There were spots on the man's face, neck and torso that suggested freckles. “Or so it would appear.”

Mycroft lifted his gaze to a suddenly squirming Lestrade. “Did you _draw_ this?”

“Um.” Lestrade harrumphed, suddenly unable to meet Mycroft’s eyes. “Bugger. Uh, yeah. I forgot that this was the one I wanted to show you hopefully _after_ you accepted a date with me. Most reports have charts and graphs and all. Fuck! Sorry. You could just ignore –”

Mycroft’s eyebrows were nearly at his hairline. “Ah. We’re in the ‘Physical Attributes’ chapter. I see ‘Mycroft’s Great Arse’ has its own subheading.  Oh, I think I understand, these aren’t so much _drawings_ as they are diagrams. Interesting! It …”

He stopped short, squinting down at the page. “Hmm. Obviously certain things were _not_ drawn to scale.”

Greg’s lips twitched. “Couldn’t do that. Would’ve run out of paper, most likely.”

Mycroft smiled, feeling the tingling sensation from earlier return, but quiet a bit lower than his jawbone. Gently, almost reverently, he flipped the stapled pages shut, his thumb gently caressing the top line of the title page. _Why I fancy Mycroft Holmes._

“I am almost at a loss as to what to say.”

 “ _Almost_?” Greg’s voice was teasing.

“Almost,” returned Mycroft with a genial shrug. “To answer your question, I am … amazed, yes. Appalled? Only that I completely underestimated you and your ability to catch me completely off guard. It’s a good job you are on _our_ side.”

Greg grinned.

“But mostly, I am … taken aback,” said Mycroft, stealing a glance downward. “And … quite charmed. And very humbled that you think these things of me and are so forthcoming about allowing me to see myself through your lens. Though, to be quite honest, I am a great deal disbelieving …”

Lestrade’s eyes went wide. “ _Disbelieving_? I just wrote out a blessed _book_ report for you! What’s it going to take to get you to understand I’m serious? An oath signed in blood –”

Mycroft held up a hand and waited for Greg to taper off. “I was _going_ to say, I am in disbelief that the attraction is _not_ solely on my end and that I have an opportunity to realize one of my greatest desires.”

“— Oh.”

“Yes, Detective Inspector.” Mycroft smiled at Greg’s sheepish, yet delighted, expression. “ _Oh._ ”

“Well, in that case,” said Lestrade, “D’you reckon you could give over the ‘Detective Inspector’ bit and try ‘Greg’?”

“Oh … I’d like to _try_ Greg _very_ much,” said Mycroft, his voice dipping into a register that he rarely used outside the bedroom. He smothered a chuckle when Lestrade, suddenly glassy-eyed, licked his lips.

“Does your invitation to dinner still stand?”

Greg swallowed hard, his head nodding forward. “Oh it stands. It _definitely_ stands.”

Mycroft laughed beneath his breath. “Well then. I hope to discuss this report in greater detail.” He smoothed his hand over the top page. “And, perhaps, at some point I could contribute a companion piece to this truly singular work?”

Greg Lestrade’s grin was blinding as he nodded and stood up, preparing to depart. Mycroft tried not to goggle. If he did do his own full report on why he fancied the hell out of the handsomest Detective Inspector at New Scotland Yard, it appeared that there would be a physical feature of Lestrade’s _also_ deserving of its own chapter.

End

* * *

 

_Little 15_   
_Why does she have to defend_   
_Her feelings inside_   
_Why pretend_   
_She's not had a life_   
_A life of near misses_   
_Now all that she wants_   
_Is 3 little wishes_   
_She wants to see with your eyes_   
_She wants to smile with your smile_   
_She wants a nice surprise_   
_Every once in a while_   
_Little 15_

\- Depeche Mode, "Little 15" (Music for the Masses)


End file.
